Awoke slow & sad today after three consecutive nights of poetry parties & nothing planned for tonight. That the world is made up of nothing but poetry? This is possible?

And how to write anything at all coherent about all of this, this Daivd Hess tour, these poet faces, these poet homes, the lots of driving, all these words?

That the poet bakes blueberry pie
That the poet props a door open with a shoe
That the elevator is made for four men
That the poet writes four lines
That the laughter creeps up
That we cover our mouths
That there are joggers
That there are bridges
That there is a jutting out
That there are highways tucked into the city & we cannot find them
That we are not in Manhattan or Montana or St. Louis
That we must park the car somewhere
That photographs are flipped out of wallets
That wine is drunk & we are walking somewhere

I'm forgetting of course everything. For something more substantive, go visit lime tree. And tomorrow there is more--Kasey Silem Mohammad & Noah Eli Gordon at 21 Grand.


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